Crash Test Love

by Ted Michael

ME

  With one of those girls? Not sure. Pretty low, I’d guess.

  NIGEL

  Ladies do love actors, though. At least, that’s what I hear.

  ME

  True. But I think that pertains to, like, movie stars. Not people in Phantom of the Opera.

  NIGEL

  And we’re not even really in it.

  ME

  Touché.

  We continue picking at the food. Eventually the crowd starts filtering inside. A bunch of teens have stayed in the “oasis,” whatever that means; Nigel and I are chatting with two girls who go to school in Roslyn, which isn’t too far from us. They’re both pretty cute. The girl I’m talking to is named Desiree.

  DESIREE

  That must be a really demanding schedule, going to NYU School of Medicine and being in a Broadway show.

  ME

  Yeah, well … I make it work. That’s what you do when you’re passionate about something.

  DESIREE

  Being smart and talented is so … sexy. It’s such a blessing.

  ME

  Thanks. Although most of the time it feels like a curse.

  DESIREE

  What kind of doctor do you want to be?

  NIGEL

  (chiming in)

  He wants to be a proctologist.

  I smack the back of his head.

  ME

  Shut up, Horatio.

  DESIREE

  What’s that?

  ME

  Oh, he’s kidding. Horatio thinks he has a great sense of humor.

  The other girl, Annabelle, leans forward and sips from her Diet Coke.

  ANNABELLE

  A proctologist is a butt doctor.

  There’s a bit of uncomfortable silence, which Nigel eventually breaks by taking out a rum-filled flask.

  NIGEL

  Do you ladies wanna spice up your drinks?

  ANNABELLE

  No thanks. We have a chem test in the morning.

  Desiree moves closer to me and rests her head on my shoulder. I put my arm around her and try not to think about Garrett. Nigel attempts to mimic me, but Annabelle glares at him so ferociously that he almost falls out of his chair.

  I’m about to suggest to Desiree that we find somewhere a little more “private” to hang out when I hear banshee-like howling coming from inside the lobby. I glance at Nigel and raise an eyebrow.

  DESIREE

  What’s going on in there?

  NIGEL

  Let’s check it out.

  The screaming is growing louder. Inside, the party is in full swing; a girl is standing in the middle of the dance floor, practically convulsing. Barely a foot away from her is Duke, his face frozen in fear.

  ME

  (whispering)

  We’ve gotta get Duke and get outta here.

  At first, I think we’re in huge trouble, but the closer I get the more I realize that the girl—who I can tell is the birthday girl, Marge, by her silver tiara—isn’t freaking out for a negative reason (such as finding out that we crashed her party). Rather, something is making her incredibly … happy.

  MARGE

  OMG OMG OM-EFFING-G!!! THERE IS A REAL LIVE BROADWAY STAR AT MY PARTY!!!

  Oh shit.

  Marge throws her arms in the air and does a grapevine into a jazz square. She is panting so hard she reminds me of Max, my dachshund, when he sits on my porch in the summertime. Her eyes are wild, and I’m pretty sure she’s foaming at the mouth.

  MARGE

  OMG YOU NEED TO SING RIGHT NOW!!! GET ON THAT STAGE!!!

  Duke sneaks up to me, trembling.

  DUKE

  I don’t know what happened. I was doing my thing, and all of a sudden Marge started flipping out. Someone must have told her I was in Phantom and now she wants me to sing to her.

  ME

  Well, then sing to her.

  DUKE

  I don’t want to, Henry.

  I glance back at Marge, who is playing with a feather boa and grinding her hips.

  ME

  I’m not sure you have a choice.

  Marge gets up on a tiny stage with the DJ and grabs a microphone.

  MARGE

  Testing, testing, one, two, three … la la la la la la la. Thank you! Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, it’s my Sweet Sixteen, and tonight we have been graced with a member of the Broadway cast of The Phantom of the Opera.

  Marge points at Duke. People applaud.

  MARGE (cont.)

  His name is Marcello, and for my birthday, I would like him to sing me a song from the show, which happens to be one of my favorites. Not my favorite favorite, which is Les Miz, and not my second favorite, Ragtime. ‘Wheels of a Dream,’ byotches! It’s not my third favorite either, but, well, it’s definitely Top Five. No, Top Ten. Anyway … without further ado, I bring you … Marcello!

  Duke looks to me for help. I shrug and start to laugh. This is so ridiculous.

  He crawls to the stage as though he’s about to be executed, and takes the microphone from Marge, who squeals.

  DUKE

  Uh, thank you.

  There’s no accompaniment, so everyone simply waits for Duke to begin. What seems like an eternity goes by before he presses his lips to the mic.

  DUKE

  I would love to sing for you, Marge, but since it’s your Sweet Sixteen, the song should truly be a special one. I’m only in the chorus of Phantom; however, the Phantom himself is here with us tonight. (He points to me.) Give it up for my good friend, Don Carlos!

  If there weren’t over a hundred people staring at us, I would leap across the room and tackle Duke.

  DUKE

  Don’t be shy, Don Carlos. Come on up.

  Nigel pushes me forward and I give the crowd a fake smile. When I reach the stage, Duke passes me the microphone.

  MARGE

  Aren’t you a little young to be the Phantom?

  DUKE

  Nah, you should see him with the mask on!

  How can I get out of this? I could drop the mic and run, but Duke has the keys, and I’d have to wait for the valet to bring the car around—by that time Marge (or her parents) will have clobbered me to death.

  MARGE

  Well, sing to me already! Somebody SING to me! It’s my effing birthday!

  Here goes nothing. I start with the first few words of “The Music of the Night.” Even though the movie version sucked, I’m glad I saw it. I have a decent-enough voice. Although I forget a few of the words, I think Marge will be happy.

  Toward the end (I sort of rushed through the middle, let’s be honest) I look over at Marge and she’s crying. Could I possibly be that … good? When I finish, her tears are flowing pretty freely.

  ME

  Don’t cry, Marge.

  MARGE

  IT’S MY PARTY AND I’LL CRY IF I WANT TO! You’re an AWFUL singer! (She turns to her mother.) What has the state of musical theater come to?

  DUKE

  Actually, he’s only the Phantom understudy.

  ME

  Let’s go.

  I pull Duke off the stage with me, grab Nigel, and dash toward the exit.

  We drive home in silence. Until:

  ME

  I can’t believe that actually happened.

  NIGEL

  Well, I thought you were stellar. I wanted an encore.

  ME

  Bite me.

  I turn to Duke.

  ME (cont.)

  You’re a dead man, Duke. A dead man.

  DUKE

  If I gotta go, I gotta go. But man, was that shit funny.

  GARRETT

  “Tell us all about school!” my mother says at dinner. Since the move, we haven’t eaten together often because of Dad’s teaching schedule. Wednesday nights he’s free, though, and we try to do something as a family. Usually this means ordering in (Mom isn’t much of a cook), but tonight she’s made her signature dish: spaghetti.

  “Eat up, guys, or it’ll go c
old!” She pours more sauce onto my plate. “Isn’t this delicious? It’s my favorite recipe.”

  I want to say that boiling water and heating up a can of Four Brothers doesn’t qualify as a recipe, but I don’t because, really, where will that get me?

  “I tried this new pasta,” Mom says, “and it’s green! You probably can’t tell because of the sauce, but it is. Green pasta. What will they think of next? It’s made from spinach, I think. Organic spinach. Which is really healthy for you, honey”—she turns to my dad—“because of your high cholesterol.”

  “My cholesterol is just fine,” he says, swallowing.

  “That’s not what Dr. Miller told you. Dr. Miller said that your cholesterol was through the roof! Can you imagine? Now, eat up.” She wipes Dad’s chin with her napkin. “You had a little sauce on you,” she says, kissing him. Then she turns her attention back to me. “We’re still waiting, Garrett—how is school?”

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  “What are your favorite classes?” Dad asks.

  I think for a second. “I guess AP Lit and, I don’t know, my creative writing elective.”

  “You always were such a wonderful writer,” Mom says. “I’ve saved all the birthday cards you gave me, you know. Your words are like miniature poems. You’ve got a gift, dear. A gift. Don’t let it go to waste.”

  I can’t remember ever writing anything to my mother other than Happy Birthday, Mom. Love, Garrett, but I don’t correct her. “Uh, thanks.”

  “Any friends?” Dad asks.

  “There are these girls. London, Jessica, and Jyllian. They’re … nice.” If the J Squad ever heard me describe them as nice, I think they would officially cut me off.

  “That’s great, sweetie,” Dad says. “Any boys?”

  My father has never liked any of my past boyfriends except for Ben, who he didn’t like so much as tolerate. Not because they were bad guys—he’s just leery of any teenagers with testosterone.

  I wonder what Dad would think of my current actions: getting Henry to fall in love with me so I can dump him on television to teach him a lesson. I doubt he’d be very proud. Before I can answer, my mother says, “Oh no, honey. Garrett has sworn off men. Forever.”

  Dad raises an eyebrow. “Forever?”

  “Just until college,” I say.

  He continues staring at me. “Good for you, sweetie. That’s an excellent idea. Focus on your grades and applying to schools. Have you thought about where you want to go?”

  I remember my conversation with Henry in his room. Why is the question from adults always Have you thought about where you want to go? and not Have you thought about what you want to be? Who you want to be

  “Not really,” I say. “A little.”

  “You should,” Dad says. “I can put you in touch with the Columbia admissions person for Long Island if you have any questions. Or the woman from U Chicago.”

  “Sure,” I say. “That sounds fine.”

  “Oh, before I forget,” Mom says, “we were invited to a party this weekend. A welcome-to-the-neighborhood kind of thing. One of the women who lives down the street invited me this afternoon. I wanted to say that we’ve been here for over a month already! Where was this party when we first arrived? But I didn’t want to be rude, you know? Better late than never, I suppose.”

  “Sounds good,” Dad says, leaning in and giving her a kiss. I think about when Henry kissed me this afternoon. “It’ll be fun, I bet.”

  My parents have known each other since they were my age. They met in high school and started dating their junior year. They went to separate colleges but stayed together (aside from a six-month breakup that neither of them will speak about). They are totally and completely in love. I can’t decide whether this makes me sick or insanely jealous.

  I put down my fork. “May I be excused? I have a lot of homework.”

  “Sure, honey,” Dad says. “Get to it!”

  I leave the table and go upstairs, letting them have a few moments alone.

  In my room, I sit down at my computer and check my e-mail. Nothing. I pick up my phone and dial Amy’s number. It goes straight to voice mail. I don’t leave a message. Why hasn’t she returned any of my calls? This is getting ridiculous already.

  I’m about to put my phone down when it buzzes. One new text message. From London.

  Saw u with Henry @ lunch today. Good 4 u.

  I write back:

  All in a day’s work.

  Then she writes:

  When’s ur next date?

  Good question. So far, I think I’ve played everything perfectly. Aside from getting the job at the cinema, all of my encounters with Henry have been initiated by him (even though they were manipulated by me). I haven’t chased after him; I’ve let him take the lead. He was the one who started saying hello to me at school. Who invited me to watch Annie Hall. Who asked me to have lunch with him. Maybe now it’s time to up the ante.

  I open my Gmail account. I need to send something short and to the point. Flirty and intriguing rather than pushy and irritating. An e-mail that, when he opens it, will make him respond immediately.

  To: henry.arlington@gmail.com

  Subject: When are you …

  Going to take me out on an actual date? Courtyard benches are nice and all, but sometimes a girl likes a good old-fashioned restaurant.

  —G

  I click Send and stare at my computer, waiting for a little (1) to appear next to the Inbox on the left side of the screen. I open my iTunes library and search for Adele. At least I can have some music while I wait.

  I get through the first two songs on her album and am halfway through the third when a reply comes. I click it open.

  Henry Arlington to me

  You + Me = Friday. After school.

  That’s all it says. Five words, but I’m in. I close my eyes and lean back in my chair. Good work, Garrett. Then I reply to London’s last text:

  Friday

  A few seconds later, she writes:

  Lavish. See u tmrw!

  I wonder where Henry will be taking me. I know it doesn’t really matter what we do—it’s the fact that we’re going out that counts—but still. Were this an actual relationship, I’d be smitten with how adorable he’s being (buying me a cookie?! Flirting via e-mail?!), but since it’s not an actual relationship, any smitten-ness would be inappropriate on my part. Completely inappropriate.

  I do my homework and get ready for bed. I watch TV and paint my nails. I go into iPhoto on my MacBook and find pictures from my seventeenth birthday; I drag all the ones with Ben in them to the trash except for a photo of me, him, and Amy. I’m still feeling restless. I begin unpacking some of the boxes from the move I’ve hidden underneath my bed. Lots and lots of books. My copy of Aimee Mann’s The Forgotten Arm, the one I thought I’d lost. I still cannot stop thinking about Friday. What am I going to wear?

  I’m searching through my closet—I have way too many sweaters—when I pause for a moment. It feels like I’m getting ready for a date, only this is not a real date. This is part of a game, a mission. I am going out with Henry because it’s the next step in my plan to break his heart.

  Only I can no longer think about Henry without remembering the way he kissed me, and what it felt like to be held by him and talk about life and love. I’ve never had such a frank, open conversation with anyone—not even Ben. I want to be happy that I found someone at my new school I truly connect with, but I can’t because I’m not supposed to like Henry. I am supposed to destroy him.

  But if I like Henry, actually like him, then I’m going against everything I said I wanted, mainly not putting my feelings at the mercy of some “high school boy,” as London would put it.

  Despite my confusion, one realization has emerged: this thing with Henry is complicated.

  HENRY

  INT.—MY BEDROOM, THURSDAY AFTERNOON

  DUKE

  Okay, how about this: we dress up in big chicken costumes, like we work at KFC or s
omething, we have buckets full of fried chicken, and when Destiny comes out we throw chicken everywhere!

  NIGEL

  No.

  ME

  No. And that’s a waste of chicken.

  DUKE

  Okay, how about this: we dress up like pirates, with eye patches and a lot of gold chains, and Nigel, you can have a peg leg, and we talk in ridiculous accents and steal people’s money.

  NIGEL

  I like the gold chains part. And the peg leg.

  ME

  You would.

  NIGEL

  But I feel like pirates are so 2003. We need something very now. Something that’s never been done before.

  DUKE

  Remember when we put food coloring in everyone’s water glasses at that Sweet Sixteen out in Montauk? We could do that again.

  NIGEL

  No. We can’t repeat any old pranks. MTV is going to be there! This is huge. Whatever we do has to be … epic. It has to go down in history.

  ME

  I hardly think some random prank at a Sweet Sixteen will go down in history.